My mother has long preached that there’s no use in crying about it.

It, of course, could be anything: a broken heart, a broken nail, a broken painting (damn you, 3M Hooks!), a broken bone. But y’know what? I disagree.

(Go ahead, feign surprise.)

Anybody who knows me knows I am a crier. Not in a gloomy, walk around crying and sniveling all day crying way because that would be dreadful, but in an emotionally excitable, feeling all the feels kind of way.

And believe me: I feel all the feels.

I cry when I’m happy. I cry when I’m sad. I cry when I am sick, or hurt, or angry and when I’m afraid. Sometimes, I’m so full of pride and love for my little historian that it overflows in the form of tears. I laugh until I cry. I cry until I laugh.

My mother also tells me it’s “not good” to cry in front of F and, again, I disagree. Emotions are a healthy part of life, and while they may be big and scary sometimes, they are normal. If I’m never going to show him that I am sad, or afraid or vulnerable, I better not show him when I am happy, or excited or confident because life isn’t one-sided. So I cry in front of him sometimes.

But sometimes when I’m crying for reasons that are too big for him to understand I turn on Netflix, hand him a snack and head to my bathroom to draw a bath. And then, while sitting in the tub, I let it all out. Why? you may ask. Simple.

I can just wash my face and get back to being awesome.